by Benjamin Law
‘So boring!’ he said. ‘Jakarta is much better for work, but so expensive for life. If you have skills, if you have good speak-English, it’s easy for find job in Bali. And Bali is much better for gay life.’
Bumi didn’t believe in true love, which suited him fine. In Bali, he explained, it was all about sex, and sex came with a price tag he was happy to charge.
‘If you come to Bali for sex, if you want to fuck us, you must pay!’ he said.
‘Does that mean the ultimate goal is to find a rich sugar daddy?’ I asked.
Bumi looked angry and offended. ‘Not true!’ he said. ‘I don’t want to find!’
Horrified, I started to apologise.
Bumi laughed. ‘I don’t want to find sugar daddy,’ he explained. ‘I want him to come to me, because I’m younger. Hahahaha!’
Bumi was only interested in white Western guys: Italian or Swiss especially. Roughly half the sex Bumi had ever had in his life – and there had been a lot – had involved a monetary transaction. He didn’t consider himself a moneyboy or a prostitute and definitely wasn’t desperate for cash. Bumi already had a job that paid the bills. He just didn’t see the point in giving away his assets for free. A couple of months ago, for instance, Bumi had had sex with a Japanese guy he wasn’t particularly attracted to, so he had charged him 10,000 yen – about 120 US dollars – and all parties came away happy. On his Gay Romeo and Scruff internet profiles, Bumi had even set up a Western Union account, so that if a horny bulé wanted to see naked photos of him, they could easily transfer 100 euro to Bumi for quick access. In a way, I admired Bumi’s entrepreneurial spirit.
‘And what do you get to see for 100 euro?’ I asked.
‘Cock-cock, naked-naked,’ he said.
Bumi hadn’t actually gotten any money from the Western Union set-up yet – too many guys were showing off their naked bodies for free, he said with contempt – but he was still proud of coming up with the idea himself. And because of his online profiles, there was one American bulé who wanted to fly Bumi to Texas for the sole purpose of having Bumi fuck him really hard in the arse, which I said sounded like a lovely trip. Bumi hadn’t yet set a price for that particular arrangement, so the emails had stopped for now. I joked to Bumi that if he ever became a proper moneyboy, he wouldn’t be a very efficient one. He fluttered his eyelashes at me and shrugged innocently.
Later, over drinks at Club Cosmo, Bumi got out his Samsung phone and showed me the photos he charged foreigners 100 euro to see. There was one spectacular shot of Bumi getting out of a pool naked, perfectly capturing the arse I had seen only hours ago at Spartacvs, thrusting at the Dutch men. I thanked Bumi for not charging me 100 euro to see the photo and he laughed so loudly that everyone around us could hear, then locked his phone. As I paid for our drinks, Bumi kept on tapping his phone, checking his Facebook and Scruff accounts and showing me all the men who were interested in him.
‘So is this the kind of thing you were doing at Spartacvs tonight?’ I asked.
Bumi covered his mouth and let out a scandalised shriek, followed by a jackhammer laugh. How did I know about that?
‘Um,’ I said.
Bumi explained that he had met the younger Dutch guy via Scruff, and when Bumi found out he was staying at Spartacvs, they had arranged to meet. But tonight, Bumi had been surprised – no, shocked; shocked was the word – to discover the Dutch guy had a boyfriend there with him already! And an old boyfriend, no less. Gross, yuck, ugh. Bumi didn’t know they were looking for a threesome.
‘He wants to get fucked from me, but I cannot!’ Bumi said, looking as though about to gag. ‘I’m not interested in his boyfriend; no, no, no! Because he lie. He tells me before he came to Bali he was coming alone. I love Dutch guys – and he is from Dutch – but I don’t like threesomes! Oh my god.’ Bumi shook his head, almost morally affronted. ‘You want a threesome with me, you must pay me!’
‘And because he wouldn’t pay –’
‘I don’t want to sex!’
‘How much would someone have to pay?’ I asked.
Bumi shrieked, scandalised.
‘Why is that so scandalous?’ I said. ‘How much did you ask?’
Bumi bit his lip. ‘Um, 100 euro!’ he said, breathlessly.
‘That seems reasonable,’ I said. ‘And they still didn’t want to pay?’
Bumi shook his head. ‘He wants to get fucked by me? He must pay me! I’m attracted to the younger guy, but I would not touch with the boyfriend. And I’m not interested! Because he lie.’
‘So,’ I said delicately, ‘exactly how far did it go?’
Bumi sighed. ‘He wanted to see my cock … so I just showed him. I mean, as you already know: Balinese. There are many sluts in here.’
‘Oh, sluts!’ I said enthusiastically.
‘Oh yeah, many.’
‘You mean the local guys?’
‘Local guys, but not just local guys. Western guys also.’
I sipped on my drink, thinking about it. ‘So what you’re saying,’ I said, ‘is that everyone here is a slut, then.’
Bumi put his hands together and nodded sagely.
Dhyana Pura Street was a human stew of sunburn, alcohol and breathtaking crimes against music. At night, diners were serenaded with weird cover hybrids, funk-reggae versions of Kings of Leon’s ‘Sex on Fire’ and Spanish guitar chillax versions of Beyoncé’s ‘Crazy in Love’. In this street, there seemed to be more Australians per square foot than in Australia itself, all of them red-faced, flushed and thrilled at their good fortune in having found themselves in a country where they could dine in the best restaurants wearing nothing more than Bintang singlets, rugby shorts and sand-crusted thongs. Snot-nosed kids ran around with newly braided hair as their mothers cooed to each other, comparing cheap pedicures and sipping on giant cocktails.
Across from Dhyana Pura’s string of gay clubs was a kerbside where Bali’s moneyboys gathered seven nights a week to steal your heart, take your breath away and, sometimes, pinch your wallet. Rows of them waited patiently, standing on one leg with a crooked knee planted on the wall behind them, the international pose for male hustling. No one ever said they were a moneyboy outright. Partly this was out of modesty, partly because prostitution was technically illegal in Indonesia. But many of them just didn’t see themselves as hustlers. They weren’t moneyboys; they were opportunity-seekers. Their attitude was the same as Bumi’s: We’ve got something you want and we’re not giving it away for free. In a sense, ensuring that you got paid every time you had sex – irrespective of whether you liked the guy or not – was a way of respecting your worth.
The diversity was astounding. Some looked barely out of high school and wore the kind of screen-printed, block-coloured t-shirt you find in the boys section of a suburban department store. Others weren’t young at all: one guy was in his forties and slouched with a paunch that hung off him like a pregnancy. He nonchalantly smoked cigarettes as he waited for trade. Some looked poor and didn’t speak English when I said hello, while others spoke English as a first language and preppily texted their friends on BlackBerries as they waited for men. One man styled his hair in a greasy mullet and wore a shredded singlet with the words ‘PUNK’S NOT DEAD’ scrawled on it; another looked vaguely homeless and was missing a couple of teeth. There was someone here for every taste and budget.
One thing unified them: they all looked crushingly bored. They were also evasive when I asked them what they were up to that night. One guy told me he actually sold mobile phones in Denpasar full-time – a well-paying job, he added – but hung outside the clubs on Friday and Saturday nights because he ‘just liked to’. Generally, none of them talked to each other. When they figured out that I wasn’t in the market, they didn’t talk to me either. Instead, they stared at me, baffled that I wanted to chat. Later, someone told me that because I was in my twenties and also Asian, they probably saw me as competition. Feeling a little rejected, I shuffled across the road to Dhyana Pura’s bars for a drink
, when a hand reached out and grabbed me.
‘Who are you?’ a voice purred excitedly, clutching my forearm with one hand and stroking it with the other. ‘Where do you come from? You are gorrrr-geous.’
Eelga was twenty-three years old and was all mouth and coiffed hair. Along with his giant quiff, he proudly displayed teeth covered in expensive braces. His jeans were so tight that they looked painted on and he had a feather tattooed on the left side of his smooth-skinned neck. Eelga’s friend Leo was an older ethnic Chinese guy with a pugdog face and a weird haircut that looked like Justin Bieber’s fringe turned ninety degrees to the side. Leo strutted up to us with a supermodel’s walk, sandwiching me between him and Eelga.
‘What is your name?’ Leo demanded, in barking English.
‘Uh, I’m Benjamin,’ I said, casually trying to release myself from Eelga’s weirdly strong grip. ‘What are you guys up to tonight?’
‘Oh, I want to hang at the gay bar,’ Eelga said, ‘because I want to relax! Maybe meet someone there, becaussssse …’
‘Because?’ I asked.
‘Because maybe someone sexy is on holiday! Maybe I’ll meet someone there.’
‘You want to meet a tourist? A foreigner? A bulé?’
‘Exactly!’ Eelga said, snapping his fingers. ‘I’m not interested in local people; I’m interested in Western people. I don’t know why. I’m just not interested in Indonesian people! I like Westerners because they’re hot. HOT. Especially white people.’
He turned his palm down then flicked his hand upwards, as if scalded. Hot. I laughed while still trying to worm my way out of his vice-like grip.
‘And what do you like about them?’ I asked. ‘Their looks?’
‘I want to have sex with them!’ Eelga said.
Eelga demanded I take photos with him on his smartphone, using our posing as an excuse to kiss me all over the face like a persistent and hyperactive dog.
‘EELGA,’ I said.
‘You are gorrrr-geous!’ he said.
‘You say that to everyone.’
Eelga pretended to look hurt.
Eelga could come out clubbing only once a week because he worked full-time as a waiter in Legian. He mainly chased after older European guys aged between thirty and forty (‘Because hot!’ he helpfully explained), and unlike other Indonesian guys, he insisted the whole money thing didn’t matter.
‘I don’t expect the money or the rich man,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t expect about that. I just expect the HOT SEX. Of course I like old men, especially when he is gorrrrrr-geous. Especially when I was with good-looking men’ – he lowered his voice and touched my arm – ‘like you.’
I stared at him, baffled.
‘I’m not white,’ I said. Remembering that he preferred older men, I had a horrible thought: But am I old?
‘You white!’ Eelga said, as if I was stupid.
‘Eelga, I’m not white!’ I said, pointing to my face. ‘I’m Chinese?’
Eelga looked confused. ‘But you said you live in the Brisbane?’
Eelga was familiar with my Australian hometown because he had a boyfriend there right now. Actually, Eelga had a couple of boyfriends, neither of whom knew about the other’s existence. He had one boyfriend in France and another in Australia, whose photo he showed me on his phone before saying, ‘He is not good-looking,’ which I thought was sad. Eelga’s Australian boyfriend sent him about 200 dollars every month and had invited him to Australia for Christmas. Eelga’s French boyfriend was even more generous, sending him 300 euro every month, and was already proposing that they marry each other in Quebec. Eelga’s boyfriends flew to Bali in successive months to visit him and he made sure their paths never crossed.
‘That’s a nice system you have,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ he said, snapping his fingers.
‘And are you looking for Boyfriend #3 tonight?’
Eelga giggled, scandalised. Then he got really close to my face and looked into my eyes. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
I rocked my head back and swallowed.
Eelga, Leo and I headed to Mixwell’s together. As I bought us all beers, two German men in their late fifties latched onto Eelga and asked, without any introduction, whether he would come home with them for sex right now. Eelga wasn’t afraid to be rude and bluntly told them both that they were too old for him. It didn’t matter: within minutes, the German men were surrounded by swarms of other young Indonesian guys who had sniffed old blood and good money.
At Mixwell’s, hard-bodied go-go dancers climbed on top of the bar wearing nothing but white briefs, the outlines of their crotches and butts not so much suggestive as anatomical. Middle-aged women from Australia and England on holidays stared at the men’s bulges as they thrust to the club’s beat. The women were hypnotised, almost dewy-eyed at the beauty of it all. Watching them was like seeing someone’s sexual awakening occurring before my eyes. Middle-aged gay men stuffed money into the go-go dancers’ briefs. Emboldened, the women followed suit, sliding in 20,000 and 50,000 rupiah notes, almost visibly shuddering as they made skin-to-skin contact. The go-go dancers winked at the women, making them blush.
Leo had lost his drink but was already, somehow, weirdly drunk. Or maybe he was on something. He was incomprehensibly slurring, but he had been sort of like that when we had met outside. Boisterously, he shoved his way past the crowd of dancers and drinkers, leaving angry looks in his wake, before storming up to me. With his mouth in a pout, he locked eyes with me, swiped my beer right out of my hand –
‘Leo!’ I said.
– and sculled the drink without breaking eye contact. He handed the bottle back to me dramatically, nearly empty. When I rolled my eyes and reached out for it, Leo leaned in to kiss me like a giant, slobbering Saint Bernard. I turned quickly so all he got was my neck.
‘Leo, I have a boyfriend!’ I said, pushing him off.
Leo made a face. ‘Your boyfriend is ugly!’ he barked.
He rolled his eyes at me then sashayed back into the crowd, leaving me holding a beer bottle that was now nearly empty. With the back of my hand, I wiped Leo’s spit off my neck.
‘I think he likes you,’ Eelga said into my ear bitchily as we watched him walk away.
We kept drinking hard. The rest of the night was a blur of alcohol and go-go dancers and terrible drag queens dancing to Lady Gaga in wigs that looked inspired by both Elvira and Susan Sontag.
Outside on the road, an elderly, wrinkled bulé aggressively shoved his hand down the pants of a young Indonesian guy and pretended he was a puppetmaster. Another Indonesian guy, barely out of his teens, swung flirtatiously off the back of a wizened, goblin-like white man. Both of them looked thrilled with the other as they poured themselves into a cab. Judging by the older man’s clothes, he was loaded. Both parties had clearly done well out of this transaction. All the bulés were well over fifty.
Seeing this, I was reminded of what an elderly Australian expatriate man had told me. He had lived in Bali for years and enjoyed the clubs and attention when he was younger. Nowadays, he avoided them. The older you were, he said, the more aggressive the attention from the young boys.
‘You see this?’ he said to me, pointing to the deep lines in his forehead. ‘ATM,’ he said, tapping out the wrinkles with his finger. ‘ATM.’
I woke up at Spartacvs feeling as though my vital organs had been rearranged. My mouth tasted as if it belonged to a dead man. Morning sun crept through a tiny slit in the curtains, carving a blinding and exact path across my face, like a laser bisecting my skull. Groaning, I brushed my teeth, grabbed my towel and sluggishly hauled myself downstairs towards the pool, dipping my feet in. I looked around at the surrounding bungalows. No one else was awake. Everyone was sleeping in, recovering from the night before. Fuck it, I thought. I took off my clothes and dived in naked.
When I broke through the water, there was movement nearby. Panicked, I quickly swam to the side of the pool and watched as a sleepy-looking moneyboy crept out of a
ground-floor room. Earlier, I had met the Belgian guy who was staying in that room, an affable man in his late fifties who seemed to have a different Indonesian guy on his arm every night. This moneyboy had bed hair and smiled at me as he put on his shoes. He couldn’t have been much older than eighteen. He looked like a kid sneaking out of someone else’s dorm at a school camp following a late-night junkfood binge, all guilt-ridden but helplessly pleased with himself. We waved to each other sheepishly.
I’d been told the best place in Bali for a gay visitor to nurse a hangover was Callego Beach, a twenty-minute walk from Spartacvs. Callego was a gay hotspot where you could get snacks and legitimate massages, or disappear into the bushes for blow jobs with local men who didn’t ask for much money. If you were lucky – or unlucky, depending on your tastes – you might also encounter the Balinese guy who was said to actually live in these bushes, animal-like: a puckish man with long curls who made a living entirely out of selling hand jobs and blow jobs for 20,000 rupiah (two dollars) a pop. Someone told me he slept under Callego Café’s ramshackle roof whenever it rained.
Only a year ago, Callego Beach was still beautiful. It’d had voluminous duvet-like lawns and carefully landscaped plants that grew in explosive floral clusters. Until recently, it had been public property and the locals had taken pride in maintaining the grounds. But a few months before I arrived, the site had been bought out by a new 300-room hotel development that was in the process of bulldozing the entire site. The master plan was to erect an enormous resort as direct competition to the brashly luxurious designer beachside hotels here that charged up to 1000 US dollars a night.
By the time I got there, Callego looked sad and derelict. Past the little archway entrance, the stone paths leading to the beach had become rubble, smashed by bulldozers to make way for the new hotel’s foundations. The grass was brown and flammable-looking, crunching as I walked on it. Local boys had used to have regular volleyball competitions and visitors would gather here for sunrises and sunsets, or to celebrate birthdays. Now, as I set up a deckchair and sun umbrella, Indonesian and Chinese inspectors in business attire tiptoed between the sunbaking men, taking notes on clipboards and surveying the site for demolition. By the end of the year, this would all be torn down.